Thursday, March 14, 2013

I'm certain my doctor thinks I'm a hypochondriac. It seems like whenever I'm sick, I wait a few days to come in to make sure I really am sick and not wasting his time. Of course, by the time I do go in, I'm feeling better. Typical. So after all the exams, likings, and prodding, I'm fine.

Now, there's this new clinic, oh, but its not a clinic, we are being offered that would let us see doctors for free. OK. No more primary care provider. Just treat the symptoms and not look for the underlying issues at hand.

Everyone complains they can't get in to see their doctors. Oddly enough, I can always get in to see mine. Sure, I wait, sometimes for hours at a time, but eventually, I see him.

I'm waiting now to see him. I keep staring at the ground at the perfectly smooth deep cocoa colored feet inside of chocolate colored high heels in front of me. I have to wonder if the feet are covered in a sock or nylon, or if those feet belong to someone that just has really nice skin. Nonchalantly, I look up and cough. Confirmed. This lady has very nice skin. It has a very smooth texture to it.

Back to staring down, I notice my belly. Its full of various ripples like a weird canyon starting at my neck with rolling hills of boobs met by another rolling hill of belly met again by a rolling hill of a pooch formed from nine months of pregnancy. Looking at the rest of my body, my legs and arms, I wonder why this belly is so round while the rest ceases to gain. I feel like I have my father's shape. That of a man who wooed every day, God knows hhow many miles, delivering mail. A man who was nothing but muscle with a belly bigger than a pregnant lady's. This body, his body, is the one I have.

I cough more. Each time I do, my left ovary aches. A cyst popped on that side earlier today. I was fortunate to be in bed when it did as it felt like it would have sent me to my knees if I were standing.

My mom calls. Twice. First time I send to voicemail. Second time I answer. She asks if they found out what's wrong with me. What's wrong with me? Am I broken? It sounds like an insult.

Nothing is wrong with me. I'm just sick. And waiting to be seen. Overhearing the ladies talking in the billing are and chatter behind the waiting room door. I'm waiting to be seen. To be treated. Maybe to find out something is wrong. But now, I'm just waiting to be done so I can go to sleep.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

There are no things as bad dogs, just bad owners. Murphy’s
Law of pet ownership would explain why the loss of a good pet with a hurried
attempt to fill its empty space would result in finding a bad pet. Of course,
that dog is not bad. The owners are bad. One has high expectations of it to
fill the furry paws of its predecessor. The other isn’t sure what to do since
it’s a different dog. The little one can’t love it because it is not the old
dog. Naturally, she becomes bad because of us.

We work with her. By “we”, I mean “I”. I take her to
training. Pay hundreds of dollars and spend time with her. We develop a bond.
Of course it is not the bond the old dog had with me when I was home with her
all day, every day, during a pregnancy and after a child. I work with the Bad Pug
for a few minutes a day in the mornings and after work. I don’t know what kind
of expectations I have for her. I just wish she would be like the Good Pug.
They were both so similar. 7 or 8 months old when I got them. Rehomed twice
when we got them. The Good Pug was full of love when we got her. The Bad Pug
was full of anger and fear. The Good Pug shared a home with a jealous sibling
pug who had claimed the house and hearts of its owner forcing them to rehome
the Good Pug. The Bad Pug was locked in a garage all day and crapped all over
the place and chewed on anything in sight. Upon meeting both, neither of them
wanted anything to do with me. The Good Pug growled, barked, and ran away. The
Bad Pug tried to bite my face and went into a frenzied attack mode similar to a
rabid pit bull. I took a chance on both. Both loved me and came to me for
comfort, shelter, food, and love.

The Good Pug loved us all.

The Bad Pug only loves me.

It only makes sense the Bad Pug would love me. I needed her
love. I welcomed it. Despite my expectations, I look past her defiance and
stubbornness and see big eyes and a fat little body that farts in my arms and
happily licks my face with the same tongue that eats the cat’s shit. I don’t
care because to me, none of that matters. The Bad Pug’s little life is too
precious and fragile and could be ripped from me so quickly one day like the
Good Pug’s was. No crime she does is worth her life and I could never be angry
at her. Ever.

I hate coming home to trash on the floor from her excavating
the trash cans or random piles of shit and stains from piss on the carpet. I
have lost several pairs of shoes, which she has thankfully gone past that
routine. I simply yell at her in a monotonous repetition of “no trash – no trash
– no trash – no trash – no poop – no poop – no poop – no poop” to her errors
before sending her to “iso”*. It has become a repetitive routine, as if the
little Bad Pug enjoys punishment as a form of attention. My little masochist greets
me daily with something to be yelled at and acknowledges her wrong doing and
runs to her crate where she gives the pouty pug face until I tell her she can
come out. It has become worse since I started going to school again, but it is
what it is.

I call her the Bad Pug. Really, she’s not that bad. We’re
the ones who fail to train her. We’re the ones who fail to regularly take her
to the bathroom. The other says she is lazy and bad. That she used to hold her
pee and poop and give us signals when she has to go. I correct him and say that
was the Good Pug, but he disagrees. The Bad Pug never was that good. It is not
her fault we failed to teach her proper house breaking. Although, sometimes, I
think she is defiant because I am not home as often and she does it
intentionally to the other. As if she is trying to show him what a truly bad
pug she can be. How he used to have a Good Pug and that pug was not bad at all
and now he will live with a Bad Pug. She is what he gets. She is what we all
get. Yet no one loves her like we loved the Good Pug.

But I love the Bad Pug. Even though I am frustrated by her
daily, I still love her because I know we deserve her. And she, despite being
bad and not knowing better, deserves to be loved. There is no reason she should
be shunned or crated all day. The other crates her often hoping to teach her.
And at first, it seemed like we had her in the crate constantly. During the day
when we were at work so she wouldn’t tear the house apart and shit on
everything. At night when we came home and she would shit on the carpet. We had
the Good Pug in her box** and the Bad Pug in her crate and while I just needed
a fat little body to hold to comfort me, instead I had two pugs that I was
unable to hold.

And now I don’t even care. I don’t care if she doesn’t
listen to the other or marks or destroys things. I don’t care. It breaks my
heart to see that my Good Pug is in her box on the dresser. The Bad Pug is
caged all the time. I don’t have the heart to keep her in her cage. I got her
to comfort me and to have a fat little body to hold onto. So what if her
trimmed nails slice my skin when she jumps on my lap to greet me, or snags my
nylons when I come home? There is no point in having a pet if they are placed
in a corner constantly and not loved. Then, we are no different than her last
owners.

We had a Good Pug. Had. She is gone and will never come
back. If the other does not like the way the Bad Pug acts, perhaps he should
work with her more. Instead of complaining as if it is my fault that she is the
way she is, he should try. He had a Good Pug. He broke the Good Pug of bad
habits, so why not the Bad Pug? Instead, he makes her my problem to deal with.
She is not a problem. She is just a Bad Pug who has bad owners.